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We’re driving to church
On Christmas Eve,
Each dressed to the nines
My father only goes to church with us
Perhaps twice a year.
He is in the driver’s seat
Chatting to my mother about his childhood
The first time he saw snow.
He’s doing 75 through the countryside,
And the forest along the road is flying by so fast
That the leaves on the trees could be flocks of tiny birds.

I see God in those birds.
I see God in the crows feet at the corners of my father’s eyes
When he laughs.
I see God in the way my parents hold hands
As we merge onto the highway.

The easiest way to see God in your life
Is in the littlest of things;
A song on the radio.
A soft rain after days of cloudy skies.
A baby’s toothless grin.

I see God when I’m writing.

I think that
Poetry,
When it really means something,
Is as close to perfect
As a prayer can get.

*Mackenzie Acree is an award-winning poet and the granddaughter of my very close friend CHAPLAIN [LTC] JAMES C. BERBIGLIA, USA, Ret. PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH USA. Jim wrote this about Mackenzie: Mackenzie just completed another year as editor of the O’Connor High School (San Antonio, TX) Literature Magazine and has been re-elected editor for her senior year.

Being the white sons of Cain
do we have any right to exist?
By murdering millions upon millions
do we think we will secure power?
By building an excruciatingly huge arsenal
do we really think we can dispel fear?
By grabbing all the wealth
do we think we can buy security?
By plundering the earth
do we think we will have dominion?
By lifting up Jim Crow do we believe
we can keep people down?
By building walls do we really
think we can keep people out?
By stacking the judicial deck
do we think we can control females
and obliterate gays and that will
keep our straight, white, male butts
in our rightful place?
By promoting individual salvation
(more akin to the phony notion of
rugged individualism than the gospel)
in accepting a lily-white Northern European
Jesus Christ as our lord and savior
(a fabrication of our selfish imagination)
do we really think we will go to heaven
when we die while burning in
hell right now by killing millions
upon millions, by stock piling weapons,
by hoarding wealth, by plundering the
earth, by legislating hate, by building
walls, by stacking the judicial deck,
by keeping minorities in shackles,
when the only shackle is that we are
the white sons of Cain, lifting and
offering our fear-driven and
hate-filled gift to heaven
Have we sacrificed our right to existence?

Teleological discussions
Often end in concussions.
Philosophers and Holy Men
Driven round the bend
Disputes about how it all began
Disputes about how it all will end
Fights about the place of Man
Whether there’s a Plan
Who to praise?
Who to blame?
What’s He look like?
What’s His name?
Or if its really She, not He?
Beats me.
I guess we’ll see, wont we?

Might be in Caracas
Trading votes for bread
Might be in Damascus
Searching rubble for the Dead
Might be a hapless refugee
Intercepted out at sea
Interdicted at the Border
In the name of Law, and Order;
Or a missing Dissident
His family wondering where he went
Its raining but i’m warm and dry
Well fed and unafraid
But under no illusion
Its from choices that I’ve made
Or by the touted “grace of god”
Can’t make that leap
Can’t shake that doubt
Its down to Luck and mines been good
Hoping it wont soon run out.

The man never enters teleological arguments —
there is no proving or disproving the
existence of God from said “proofs.”

He enjoys theological discussions and
eagerly will argue his personally held “truths.”

Each stands before God and makes the “leap of faith”
or doesn’t and “there is the rub,” as Hamlet stated
and Kierkegaard concludes.

The man’s dad was a courageous (thoughtful, honest) agnostic
who eventually made that “leap of faith,”
and was then an understanding listener of the opinions
of agnostics and atheists, their beliefs and anyone’s wraith.

The man’s dad had a heart attack; he shared a room in the
hospital with an agnostic and they had an enjoyable week;
though his dad was intellectually and spiritually energized,
he remained physically weak.

It was enjoyable enough that when the man’s dad died,
this former roommate wrote a letter to the editor and said he cried
when he heard of the man’s father’s death
because that man’s dad had an air of acceptance, so fresh
from what he had previously experienced so often —
evangelical Christians’ delegating unbelievers to hell’s coffin.

Apparently, it was as good a time as two could have in a hospital ward —
two earnest souls warding off being bored,

and enjoying each other thoroughly
and at least according to one, definitely eternally.

Nothing really rhymes with “tariffs”
Excepting perhaps “County Sheriffs”
Trade Deficits don’t stir the heart
And might not make for works of Art
So it’s just as well the War is off
Trump tweets aside that’s it that’s all
Why cede the Chinese intellectual properties?
Perhaps they’ve agreed to build the Wall.

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Dr. Robert E. Dahl

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The Ten P.M. Walk

My daughter and I have published the Ten P.M. Walk, a collection of my posts and Rachel's formatting.

The Nine A.M. Jog

This is a photo of pages inside of the Nine A.M. Jog, a book we just published showing Rachel's original abstract watercolor interpreting one of my poems. The Ten P.M. Walk and The Nine A.M. Jog can be purchased from Amazon Books and Barnes and Noble Books.